Star Trek: The Next Generation - 112 - Cold Equations: The Persistence of Memory

by David Mack

  Picard brushed half a dozen burning motes from his sleeves and shoulders with stoic aplomb. “Steady,” he said, projecting calm to his crew. He ignored the torrent of damage and casualty reports on his command panel, focusing instead on the main viewer’s tactical display. Mangala dominated the forward view, and the android factory’s coordinates switched from stand-by yellow to in-range red. “Lieutenant Šmrhová, arm torpedoes and lock on target.”

  Another jarring hit rattled the ship. Dygan called out, “Aft shields collapsing!”

  “Torpedoes locked,” Šmrhová answered from the security console.

  “Fire at will,” Picard said. When his order wasn’t immediately confirmed, he looked at Šmrhová and saw in her pained expression a mix of desperation and regret. “Lieutenant?”

  Her hand trembled above her console. “Sir, the away team . . .”

  He understood her reluctance. Worf, La Forge, and Choudhury all were like family to him, but the demands of the uniform had to come first. Worf had recommended this action knowing full well the risk to himself and the away team, and Picard trusted his first officer’s judgment without question. He hardened his heart for what had to be done. “You have your orders, Lieutenant. Fire torpedoes, full spread, and suppressing fire aft.”

  “Aye, sir.” Šmrhová’s hand fell like the blade of a guillotine onto her console and launched the torpedoes. The cluster of missiles streaked away from the Enterprise, blazed through the atmosphere at one-eighth the speed of light, and descended on their target. As they struck the planet’s surface like fire and brimstone, Šmrhová unleashed a fresh salvo of torpedoes and phaser fire at the four Breen ships that continued to harass the Enterprise.

  An intense flash of white light erupted at the target, and when it faded a second later it was replaced by a ring of fire that expanded at supersonic speed from the blast point. Within five seconds a massive plume of black ash, smoke, and dust obscured the detonation site. “Target destroyed, Captain,” Šmrhová said, her tone flat and dispassionate.

  The persistent, irregular concussions of attacks by the Breen ships ceased. Dygan checked his readings twice, then looked back at Picard with a surprised expression. “The Breen ships have broken off and engaged their cloaking devices, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Glinn.” Picard understood the grim pragmatism of the Breen’s actions. Now that the factory was gone, they apparently saw nothing left there worth fighting for and chose to cut their losses. This wasn’t a victory that anyone would hold up as an example of textbook tactics at Starfleet Academy, but Picard was happy to be spared the bloody attrition of a fight to the death after the damage his ship had just suffered. “All decks, cancel Red Alert. Send updated damage and casualty reports to the XO. Bridge out.” He hid his bitter regrets and misgivings over the loss of the away team as he said to his team on the bridge, “Well done, everyone.”

  Grateful nods of acknowledgment were followed by relieved sighs, and the tensions of battle abated as the crew set themselves to the less exhilarating but equally important tasks of restoring the ship to its normal operating status. Then an alert on Dygan’s console made the Cardassian sit up. “Captain, sensors have detected a ship ascending from the planet’s surface.” He looked back at Picard. “It’s the ship we followed here, sir.”

  Šmrhová silenced a warbling tone at her station. “They’re hailing us—audio only.”

  Daring to hope for good news, Picard stood. “On speakers.” A nod from Šmrhová confirmed the channel was open. “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise.”

  “Captain, this is Worf, requesting permission to land.”

  The sound of the Klingon’s voice dispelled Picard’s somber mood. “Granted, Number One. And might I add, it’s good to hear your voice. Did you recover the stolen androids?”

  “Only two of them—Lal and B-4. I’ve also captured new Breen military technology requiring immediate analysis.”

  “Very good. Is the rest of your team with you?”

  The long delay in Worf’s response alerted Picard that something was gravely amiss.

  “Captain . . . you and Doctor Crusher need to meet us . . . alone.”

  33

  Picard stepped out of the turbolift to find Doctor Crusher holding her surgical kit in one hand, waiting for him outside the door to the main hangar bay, at the far aft end of the ship’s main hull. “It’s still pressurizing,” she said. “Any idea what’s going on? Is one of them hurt?”

  “I’m afraid you know as much as I do right now.” He checked the safety gauge beside the door’s security panel. “I’m sure Worf will fill us in.”

  The pressure gauge shifted from yellow to green, and the automatic lock on the door released. Acting out of habit, Picard tugged his uniform jacket smooth as the door slid open with a soft hiss. Crusher followed him into the hangar.

  Ahead of them, standing alone in the center of the landing deck, was an elegant civilian transport ship of a type Picard had never seen before. The fluid curves of its silvery exterior reflected distorted funhouse-mirror images of the hangar, himself, and Crusher. Its shape was sleek and swept back, like a raptor diving toward prey, and it had what he assumed was a spacious command deck beneath a long black canopy on the dorsal side of its tapered bow. Sleek, low-profile warp nacelles were tucked discreetly beneath its downward-sloping wings.

  The ship barely fit inside the hangar. Its bow, high above Picard’s and Crusher’s heads, was mere meters from the compartment’s forward bulkhead, and its stern was lucky it hadn’t been scraped when the hangar’s scalloped doors had closed behind it.

  A low hum drew Picard’s attention upward. The outline of a broad hatch appeared on the ship’s otherwise seamless exterior, and then the portal was pulled inward and aside. A wide ramp of the same unblemished silver extended from the doorway to the hangar’s deck. Picard and Crusher moved to the end of the ramp and waited.

  Worf was the first to appear in the hatchway and descend the ramp. La Forge followed a few paces behind him. Anticipating their bad news, Picard masked his dismay for the sake of morale and decorum. He greeted his two most-senior officers at the bottom of the ramp, his mood subdued. “Welcome back, gentlemen.” Neither man looked him in the eye. As much as he hated to do so, duty compelled him to ask questions to which he’d already intuited the answers. “Velex? Choudhury?”

  The query made Worf clench his jaw and stare at the deck. La Forge seemed to search for words, but in the end all he could do was look at Picard and give a sad shake of his head.

  “Mister Worf, you mentioned you’d captured some Breen technology.”

  La Forge gestured up the ramp. “It’s in the hold, sir. We should have a team from security take it for analysis.” He looked at Crusher. “We also have a Breen fatality, if you want to add a new anatomical study to the Starfleet Medical database.”

  Crusher muffled her surprise. “All right.”

  Footsteps at the top of the ramp attracted everyone’s attention. B-4, still wearing the same ugly tan coveralls as when the crew had last seen him, descended the ramp carrying the inert form of Data’s late daughter, Lal. Cradled in her uncle’s arms, she seemed as if she might be only sleeping, because she looked exactly as she had when she was alive, eighteen years earlier.

  B-4 walked past Picard without a word of greeting, and came to a stop a few meters away. Then he turned and looked back, toward the top of the ramp. Picard pivoted and followed B-4’s gaze to see the figure standing alone in the hatchway. It was the same person he and his crew had seen on Galor IV—a perfect likeness of Noonien Soong in his late twenties, with gently tousled brown hair, a fair complexion, and bluish-gray eyes. The man wore dark shoes and trousers, a white shirt, and an antique-style brown leather vest with rawhide ties. He walked quickly down the ramp. Face-to-face with the four Enterprise officers, he wore a beatific smile.

  Then he spoke.

  “Hello, Captain.”

  The unique inflection of h
is voice had been unmistakable. Picard stared in wonder at the man before him and replied in a shocked hush, “Data . . . ?”

  “Yes, sir. It is good to be back.”

  Overcome with elation, Picard grinned like a fool. He had a thousand questions to ask and a thousand things he wanted to say, but all he could manage to utter was, “How?”

  Data shared a curious look with Geordi, then he chuckled softly. “It is a long story.”

  Tearful with joy, Crusher threw her arms around Data and wrapped him in a smothering hug. “My God, it’s good to see you, Data! Welcome home!”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He pulled back a bit, and Crusher let him, though she kept hold of his arms. “We’ll have to contact Will and Deanna on the Titan, as soon as possible.”

  “I would like that.”

  To Picard’s surprise, Data had tears in his eyes. “Data, are you all right?”

  “Yes, sir. But I am still unaccustomed to this new body my father gave me. It was made to feel a full range of human emotions, and I am finding them . . . a bit overwhelming.”

  The captain smiled at Data’s abashed reaction to his own feelings. “No more simply turning them off, eh, Mister Data?”

  He seemed to appreciate the irony of his predicament. “Unfortunately, no.”

  Picard heard the doors sigh open behind him. He turned in time to see Worf leaving the hangar deck. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized the man had slipped away.

  Data seemed puzzled by Worf’s abrupt and wordless departure, and he looked to his friends for an explanation. “Did I say something to offend Worf?”

  La Forge placed a reassuring hand on Data’s shoulder. “No, Data. That’s not about you.” Seeing that Data still lacked the necessary context, he added, “Choudhury.”

  A sharp intake of breath signaled Data’s sudden understanding. “Ah.”

  “He’s glad to see you, Data,” La Forge said. “He just needs some time right now, is all.”

  Everyone stood silent for a moment, out of respect for Worf’s loss and in remembrance of the slain security chief who had been their trusted friend and colleague for over three years. Despite the profound sadness Picard felt for her loss, he couldn’t help but continue to marvel at the presence of Data, who more than four years earlier had died for him aboard the Reman warship Scimitar, and who now stood before him not only resurrected but more human than ever before. Unable—no, unwilling—to conceal his jubilance, he stepped forward and embraced his friend. “Welcome home, Data.” As they parted, he added, “I’d thought you were gone forever.”

  Data’s eyes glistened with tears. “If not for my father’s sacrifice, I would have been.”

  34

  Everywhere that Worf went aboard the Enterprise, he saw reminders of Jasminder Choudhury. He recalled discussions they’d had in one corridor or another, moments they’d shared in the Riding Club, the hours they’d spent together in her quarters or his, and countless shifts together on the bridge. Plagued by his memories, he lived now under a permanent shadow.

  Padd in hand, he stopped outside the door to Picard’s ready room and pressed the signal. A moment later, he heard the captain’s reply from the companel beside the door. “Come.”

  The door slid open with a faint pneumatic gasp, and Worf walked inside to find Picard seated behind his desk, reviewing information on his desktop terminal. The older man looked up and took note of the padd Worf held. “Is that Data’s visual memory download of the factory?”

  “Yes, sir.” He handed the padd to the captain. “We also downloaded detailed memory files from B-4. The Breen who brought him to the planet did not think him a threat. His records of the Breen cruiser’s engineering systems were very detailed.”

  Picard nodded as he perused the information on the padd. “Well done, Number One.”

  “Have you read my after-action report?”

  The captain set down the padd and turned a cautious eye toward Worf. “I’ve made a cursory review of your report and La Forge’s. Why do you ask?”

  “I do not think we should tell Data about the Breen transport we saw leave the planet.”

  A frown deepened the worry lines on Picard’s face. “The one filled with androids.”

  “Yes, sir. We have deprived the Breen of the ability to mass-produce Soong-type androids, but there is no telling how many unprogrammed prototypes they shipped offworld.”

  Picard tapped his index finger on the desktop. “That is a troubling detail, and I share your concern—both for the tactical significance of this discovery, and for how it might affect Data. But the fact is, we can’t share any information with Data—not this, or anything else.”

  The injunction took Worf by surprise. “I do not understand.”

  “This version of him is not the same being we served with for fifteen years, Mister Worf. The Data we’ve just welcomed home technically isn’t a Starfleet officer.”

  “I thought you offered to reactivate his commission.”

  Disappointment and confusion led Picard to heave a tired sigh. “I did. He said he would ‘consider the offer’ and get back to me. . . . This new incarnation of Data seems different from the man I remember. Something is driving him—something he doesn’t want to talk about.” The captain fixed Worf with a piercing stare. “Not unlike another officer of my acquaintance.”

  Bristling at the veiled accusation, Worf buried his fury and his grief beneath a stony façade. “You will have to be more specific, Captain.”

  “You don’t need to pretend that the death of Lieutenant Choudhury is just another casualty in the line of duty. Your relationship with her was no secret.”

  Worf looked away, out a viewport at the warp-streaked stars drifting past. “It was also no one’s business but ours.” Fighting not to show his temper, he met the captain’s look. “There is no need for us to discuss this further.”

  “If that’s your wish, I’ll respect it. But I have to insist you make time to talk about it with a member of the counseling staff.”

  Anger started to get the better of Worf. “That will not be necessary.”

  “I’m making it an order, Number One.”

  Seething, Worf grumbled through gritted teeth, “Aye, sir.”

  Without waiting to be dismissed, he turned and walked toward the door. He halted as the captain snapped, “Worf!” His face burning with shame for the emotions he could not master, he looked back at Picard, who continued in a more forgiving tone. “Please accept my personal condolences for your loss. She was a fine officer, a trusted friend, and a truly remarkable woman. My report will note that she died bravely—as a hero.”

  “That would be a lie.” Bitter rage and bottomless grief left Worf feeling hollow. He had lived too long, seen too much, and grown too cynical and jaded to take comfort in such empty platitudes. The truth was far uglier and offered not a whit of solace. “She was murdered because of an order I gave. Cut down in cold blood. Her life was wasted, taken in vain, just as Tasha Yar’s was. There was no honor in her death. No glory. Only cruelty . . . and evil.”

  Worf had nothing else to say. Judging from the beaten look in Picard’s eyes, neither did he. Unable to draw another breath in the stifling confines of the ready room, Worf turned and left to continue mourning a life he could never replace, and a death he could never avenge.

  35

  La Forge entered the aft hangar deck to find Data alone beneath the open dorsal hatch of his inherited starship, the Archeus, directing the activities of numerous automated machines that were loading equipment and refueling the vessel. Data himself was dressed in loose, casual attire similar to what he’d been wearing when he’d first come aboard several days earlier. He greeted La Forge with an easy smile and a friendly nod. “Come to see me off?”

  “Looks that way.” He forded the flurry of busy machines scurrying around the deck and joined Data beneath the ship.

  “Geordi, I want to thank you for letting me use the science labs to restore my
new body to its fully operational status.” Data looked himself over, inspecting his own handiwork, then he favored La Forge with a warm smile. “It would not have been possible without your help.”

  “My pleasure. I just wish you weren’t leaving so soon. Seems like you just got here.”

  A sympathetic nod. “I understand. But there is much I need to do.” He looked around at the autoloaders. Without a single spoken command from Data, they converged under the open hatchway, grouped themselves into an efficient close formation, and were gently lifted upward by a pale yellow tractor beam. The two men watched the cluster of machines vanish inside the ship’s main hold. “Captain Picard tells me B-4 has asked to be returned to Galor IV. It seems my brother has come to consider Captain Maddox a friend.”

  “With good reason. Bruce took quite a stand for B-4.” La Forge was amused by the irony of Data’s former nemesis becoming his brother’s staunchest advocate. “How times change, eh?”

  “Indeed.” A melancholy silence filled the space between them, and unlike in years past, Data seemed to take immediate notice of it. “Are you troubled about something, Geordi?”

  Torn between his misgivings and his desire to respect Data’s privacy, La Forge was slow to respond. “I heard that Captain Picard offered to reactivate your commission. And that you refused.” Confronted with that fact, Data looked away, as if he were ashamed. “Why, Data?”

  Data’s mien grew solemn. “I have known for some time that my father did not approve of my decision to join Starfleet. But until I acquired all his memories, I did not understand how deeply my choice had offended him. Out of respect for the sacrifice he made to bring me back, I think I owe it to him to consider alternatives rather than try to resume a life that ran its course.”

  His choice of words made La Forge uneasy. “Ran its course? Data, what are you talking about? Your life’s not over.”